


Isolation

by under_a_linden_tree



Series: Essential worker: the adventures of Javier the postman [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Javier is so done, M/M, Original Character(s), POV Outsider, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, in which Crowley needs help because he's a mess, look they’re both idiots and we know this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27965081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: When another lockdown starts, Javier the postman notices that his long-term customer, Mr. Crowley, seems to be lonely again. How strange that he is receiving no letters this time around...
Relationships: Implied Aziraphale/Crowley - Relationship
Series: Essential worker: the adventures of Javier the postman [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048117
Comments: 18
Kudos: 100





	Isolation

**Author's Note:**

> People said they'd like to see more of Javier, so I delivered. A huge thank you to my beta-reader Thyra279, as always.

It’s November and Javier is about to fucking lose it. He’s well aware that he can’t be the only one who is close to snapping, of course he knows that, but the whole situation – it worries him, all right? Every damn day, he’s in contact with a large number of people, from co-workers to customers to people he meets in the streets, and that’s an awful burden to carry around. He doesn’t know if his daughter will be able to attend school throughout the year either, and he’s desperate to give her the answers he doesn’t have.

At the same time, he knows he could be doing worse. He still has his job, the job he used to love so much, and his family, and yes, even Mrs. Babinsky’s gluten-free pierogi[1]. 

Besides, there’s things at work that still conjure a smile on his face.

Yesterday, he saw a small child hiding behind his mother’s proverbial skirts, looking at him with wide-eyed wonder, maybe even a little scared. Right before the door closed, the boy had smiled at him and waved with his tiny hand. A week ago, there had been a young woman to whom he’d delivered a diploma, and she’d been brimming with joy and excitement. She told him that this was her dreams coming true, and isn’t that a thing? Being an essential instrument to the realisation of someone’s dream.

And then there’s flat 13, that weird extravagant place in Mayfair. If Javier were to Marie-Kondo his life, he would keep it around because it definitely has sparked a lot of joy throughout the past few months. Now, however…

See, _something_ has happened during the summer.

Mr. Crowley, well, he’s always been a bit of a loner, until these _beautiful_ , scented and calligraphed letters started turning up and Javier just _knew_ he was bearing witness to a love story like in the movies. They’d carried on throughout the entirety of lockdown, getting more elaborate with time and, occasionally, even accompanied by a small parcel[2]. Once the restrictions had been lifted, however? Oh boy, no post _at all_ for Mr. Crowley. Not even a single gaudy leaflet. Even more importantly, none of those my-life-sucks-but-I-have-money-so-hey-let’s-develop-a-bad-spending-habit parcels[3]. Instead, Javier had run into the mysterious letter writer, Mr. A. Z. Fell, one morning. Well, not run into per se, but rather encountered at a safe and responsible distance. As the front row audience of this romance, he could say that he approved at first glance. Mr. Fell seemed nice and kind and he had this strange, happy glow to his face. Quite the polar opposite to gloomy Mr. Crowley, come think of it, but those kinds of things attract, don’t they?

Anyway. He’d been truly happy to see Mr. Crowley changed for the better. Whenever he delivered something – a much rarer occurrence without Mr. Fell’s letters – the chap had seemed more relaxed and content with life in general. Perhaps he’d quit his job, too? After all, he no longer looked stressed and, er, almost haunted in strangely regular intervals.

So with Mr. Crowley settled in happiness, Javier naturally turned his attention to the next interesting person – that nice Mr. Fell. They’d talked on a couple of occasions when Javier delivered a package and he’d signed for it. He passed inspection every single time, unfailingly kind and positively sweet, although he tended to have this mischievous glint in his eyes sometimes.

What Javier concluded very soon was that Mr. Fell must be highly interested in literature. In the seven years he’s been covering this area, Mr. Crowley had only received a book three times, and once during lockdown[4]. Ever since Mr. Fell is staying over occasionally, though? Books aplenty. Almost looks like they’re reading _together_ , to pass the time or something.

Alright, that might just be wishful thinking on Javier’s part, but is it so bad that he wants them to be happy? Seven years will make you strangely attached to the people in the liminal spaces of your life.

He even saw them out in the streets one Sunday morning, casually strolling down to a bakery a few blocks from flat 13. They’d seemed very content with life in general, and rather besotted with each other, almost like people who were able to love for the first time. It reminded Javier of the good times he’d had with his wife, before the divorce and everything.

And then, one day, all that had changed. Not the wife thing – well, the wife thing too, actually, but it’s not about the wife thing, not this story – but the thing with Mr. Crowley. Javier had chatted to Mr. Fell when he delivered some wine, and the man had seemed… somewhat beaten down.

Now, a week later, it’s back to the frustration-shopping-parcels. Javier rubs his forehead in concern while he waits for Mr. Crowley to open the door and sign for his delivery. There’s probably nothing wrong with _them_ , but the current situation? Lockdown again, no visits, ergo: a rise in frustration and resignation.

“What is it?” Mr. Crowley hisses as he throws open the door.

He looks angry and worn out, his hair sticking up in different directions, and his shirt crumpled around the neck, like he’s been tearing at it because the collar was starting to constrict him. Javier knows that feeling all too well, knows how it pains him to associate it with his own once-so-beloved uniform.

“Delivery for you, Mr. Crowley,” he says, and tries to smile encouragingly. “Got something nice for yourself?”

Mr. Crowley rolls his eyes, but some of his anger seems to deflate and his shoulders fall. All the weight of the year has left an imprint there, nonetheless.

“‘s for the bloody plants. Nothing to write home about.”

“Alright,” says Javier. “I mean, we all have to keep ourselves busy some way or another, since going out is not really an option.”

“Yep.” He pops the _p_ at the end, and signs the form before handing it back to Javier. “Ciao.”

* * *

Look, normally Javier _really_ isn’t the type of guy to go around snooping, but – and here’s the crucial point – he’s getting worried. Pretty worried, actually. Not only is he delivering a yet again continuous string of packages, it’s also back to the bottles. While that alone might not be reason for concern – Javier likes a good wine as much as anyone, and he’s also been known to overindulge now and then – no human being could conceivably drink that much without suffering liver failure.

Certainly, this lockdown is going to cause quite a number of people permanent damage, both mentally and physically in some cases, but he doesn’t intend to just stand by and watch as people drive themselves to ruin.

What he needs to know first is what _exactly_ is driving Mr. Crowley crazy this time. He supposes that, in part, it’s the general desolation and emotional turmoil that this situation causes in a lot of people. His sister-in-law actually just started online therapy sessions, so he considers himself informed on the matter. On the other hand, he’s noticed that there are no more letters. Nothing. Nada. Zero[5]. From several letters a week during May and June, to at least occasional visits during the summer to – nothing? That doesn’t seem right.

So Javier comes to the conclusion[6] that Mr. Crowley must be missing his Mr. Fell. And he can understand that all too well, he really can! After all, it must be quite frustrating, growing closer and closer to someone, thinking – _now, now is when it’s finally going to work out! all’s going to be fucking amazing!_ – and then lockdown slaps you right across the face, pulling you and your loved ones apart at the seams. The question is, though, why are they not in close contact anymore? Mr. Fell certainly isn’t staying at the apartment. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have resorted to sending dozens of letters during the first lockdown, now would he? No, he must be the kind of person who doesn’t leave his own house at all; maybe he even gets his groceries delivered. Perhaps they’re simply talking on the phone instead, but Javier doubts it.

* * *

There’s more reason for renewed concern in his next encounter with Mr. Crowley. The man looks even worse than he had the last time, his skin strangely pale, with the deep lines around his mouth far more visible than usual. Javier could even swear that he can see pronounced dark circles under his eyes, but that just isn’t possible behind the sunglasses, is it? He seems restless and sleepless and completely worn out.

“D’you have anything good for me?” snaps Mr. Crowley, and then he flinches at his phrasing. “Anything worth opening, I mean.”

Immediately, he leans back against his door frame, trying very hard to gloss over the fact that he cringed at his own words. He does that sometimes, despite this entire cool persona he has going on.

Javier sifts through his carrier bag, pulling out the leaflets and the singular letter addressed to flat 13. When Mr. Crowley sees the envelope, his brows shoot up towards his hairline. A tiny smile spreads across his face and he pushes himself off the door frame to grasp it, but when he reads the dispatcher's name[7], he frowns even more bitterly. He snatches the post from Javier’s hands, crumpling it in his hands.

“Are you alright, Mr. Crowley?” Javier asks carefully, a bit taken aback.

“Nah, just being a miserable sod in this blessed house,” Mr. Crowley spats, slamming the door closed behind him.

* * *

A week later, Javier asks some of his colleagues if they’ve seen letters addressed to or sent by Mr. Crowley. None of them have stumbled across any addressed to him, but there was one recently _sent_ by a certain A. Crowley to an A. Z. Fell in Soho – hmm. 

Perhaps that’s what got Mr. Crowley in such a _mood_. He’s always been polite, not like those arses – er, people – who keep treating the working class as though they’re something inferior. Javier gets it, though, it must be awful, waiting around to go outside and – see your boyfriend, maybe? They did seem very in love last time he saw them.

So, what is a humble postman, who doesn’t want one of his old customers to be unhappy and definitely doesn’t want to be snapped at either, to do? Exactly, he must play fairy godmother. Or whoever it is who makes dreams come true in fairy tales. If Javier has learnt one thing in seven years of handing Mr. Crowley his post, it’s that the man needs a little help sometimes. Quite frankly, the guy’s a bit silly.

He sits down in front of his old desktop when he comes home one Thursday night and starts to do research. His daughter takes a curious look at the screen over his shoulder, but when she sees the black government banner on top of the page, she flops down in front of the telly instead. To the only slightly irritating theme music of some children’s show, he clicks through page upon page of information until he finally finds what he’s looking for. He briefly thinks about printing it out, but then he decides that it’s the age of smartphones and that should be enough for anyone to look things up. This should do. Javier smiles and turns off the screen.

“What do you want for dinner, princesa?” he asks, knowing full well that he has some of her favourite pierogi in the fridge.

* * *

On Friday, Javier has another parcel for Mr. Crowley. He knows that this will be his best chance to talk to him properly because today’s delivery is, in fact, something from a grocery store and that happens so rarely that it must be a treat of some sort.

He rings the snake-shaped doorbell, which he once considered extremely weird but now thinks of as a little eccentric at most, and sets the parcel on the floor so they won’t have to get too close to each other.

Mr. Crowley opens the door after a few moments, still wearing his pyjamas although it’s two in the afternoon. His sunglasses sit slightly askew on his nose. Maybe he’d been asleep up until now. It happens, some people just prefer to… not get up these days unless they have to.

“Good morning, Mr. Crowley. How are you doing?” he asks, since that’s the only conversation opener that comes to his mind.

Mr. Crowley breaks into a bitter grin, scrunching up his nose and leaning his head to the side. “Absolutely grand. Couldn’t imagine anything better. Gosh, never been happier.”

Javier is ever so slightly concerned, so he decides not to dig deeper. That’s probably for the best. Instead, he gently pokes the parcel with his foot, carefully nudging it a little closer to Mr. Crowley.

“O-okay. Got a package for you.”

After giving Javier an odd look behind his glasses, Mr. Crowley bends over and picks up the cardboard box. He clings to it a little defensively, but it seems like he doesn’t even notice that. Right, perfect time to say something – when he’s a bit vulnerable, he might actually listen to Javier’s advice.

“Do you have a sec?” he asks.

Mr. Crowley stops in his tracks. He raises an eyebrow at Javier and casually leans against the door post. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

“Errm, yes. So...”

_You’ve got this, Javier. Come on, it’s just a little meddling-in-other-peoples’-lives_ , _nothing you haven’t done before! The guy’s_ so _obviously lost_.

“Well, I see you a lot these days – I mean, that’s no surprise considering the amount of stuff you order – and I’m getting a little worried about you, sir. Can’t be healthy, can it? Drinking that much, being alone all the time…”

The eyebrow rises even higher. “Huh. Don’t see why that’s any of your business.”

“I’m concerned, is all. Look, it’s even scientifically proven that people get unhappy _and_ unhealthy when they’re alone all the time, and recently you don’t seem to be doing very well.”

A moment passes in silence and Mr. Crowley merely looks at him in confusion. It’s obvious that he has no clue what Javier’s trying to say here, but he’s also listening and that must be a good sign, right?

“Are you? Doing well?”

Mr. Crowley throws his head back and groans. The frustration is clear as day in his voice, and he rubs his hand across his forehead as though he’s incredibly tired of Javier’s bullshit. Which, of course, isn’t bullshit at all, but wisdom and good care. He mutters something under his breath and it sounds suspiciously like _Why are those humans so bloody good at this?_

“Yeah, okay, you’re right. You know it, you’ve seen him, and alright, I miss him. Happy now?”

“No! No, not at all. I want to help you.”

“Don’t think you can single-handedly end a pandemic, can you?”

“Probably not, but we’re all trying our best. I can give you some advice, however, if the only thing between you and… er, happiness, is the restrictions.”

A glimmer of hope passes across Mr. Crowley’s face, but he tries to cover it up with a quick quirk of his mouth. “Can you now?”

“I think so,” Javier says, and he finally puts his bag down, now that the conversation is flowing. “There’s this thing – it’s called a _support bubble_. It’s between you and another household, and it’s intended to help you keep afloat. When you need someone to help, or when you’re entirely on your own. Don’t know if you’ve ever considered that kind of thing, but it can’t be doing anyone any good when the only social interaction you get is talking to the postman once or twice a week.”

Mr. Crowley perks up at that, even leans a little closer towards Javier before remembering that he should keep a couple metres of distance between them. He shifts from one foot to the other, so obviously eager to find out more, even though he tried to hide it. Badly.

“Really? You can just – drop by? Hang out?”

“Probably not _that_ casual. But yes, if you need it. You can even stay overnight.”

“There’s nothing… morally wrong with forming this kind of bubble, yeah?” Mr. Crowley asks, scratching his head sheepishly. How strange. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d bother with... _morals_. “It’s something that people… do?”

“Well, yes. Personally, I usually get by well enough, but now I need my sister to look after my girl while I’m at work. Nothing wrong with it at all, you just can’t change who you’re supporting.”

It’s all true – he doesn’t know how he’d get by without Maria taking care of his daughter while he does the rounds. He wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving his child at home all the time, and all Maria needs for work is her laptop. Knowing that it doesn’t have to be a family member, nor a childcare agreement might make it a favourable solution for the two of them as well.

“I’m not really a support kind of guy,” says Mr. Crowley, tossing his parcel from one hand to the other. Javier flinches. He hates people handling his packages like that. “Don’t know a lot of people who I’d meet anyway.”

“See? All the more reasons to do it. Just call him, send him a link to the government site, whatever. And if he says that he can’t do that because you don’t _need_ any support...” Javier raises his eyebrow at that, to convey that he definitely thinks that Mr. Crowley needs _some_ kind of support, “there’s no law against moving. For a couple of months, that is.”

Mr. Crowley snorts, but it’s an amused noise. “Now don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Might be a bit too much. It’s just a suggestion. You don’t have to listen to me, of course, but I want people to be happy, inasmuch as possible.”

When he says this, he means it, and he knows that Mr. Crowley knows that too. It even makes him smile, just a little. A tentative but satisfied small smirk.

“‘s a neat suggestion. Might consider it, as it stands.”

And with those words, he slinks back into the flat, slick and serpentine in his movements. He’s always been an odd guy.

* * *

Javier has a week off after that, and he barely thinks of his job. He considers his task of helping Crowley done, so he takes that week to relax, recharge his energies, what have you. In reality, he’s slacking off in front of the telly with his daughter, and spending quality time in the kitchen. And it’s nice to spend some time with his sister again, too. They haven’t properly talked in a while.

After months and months of this, Javier notices how tired and worn out he has become. It’s soothing to spend a week away from all the mess. Sometimes, he wishes that he didn’t have to go out there at all anymore, that he could stay in the comfort of his own home, but he loves his job, has always loved it. Right?

He must do.

* * *

“You could come over, angel. If you’d like.” His voice is far softer than it has any business being, and he hates it, how vulnerable it makes him sound. “Could even stay over if that makes it easier for you.”

“I do miss you very dearly.” The voice on the other end of the line is gentle, but a little hesitant. Even if the sentiment is still hard to express, it’s genuine. More than.

“Then why don’t you come over? It’s allowed, I checked it. Wouldn’t be a – a bad influence, or anything. On the humans, I mean.”

“Oh.” It sounds a bit like a realisation. “I don’t quite know. I feel like I’ve unfairly avoided you.”

“Hngh. Yeah. Maybe a bit.”

“I suppose…”

“Hm?”

“I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm. If I came over, that is. It _is_ allowed after all.” He remains a bit torn, audibly so, but it’s a step ahead, nonetheless.

“Yes. Yes, it’s allowed, Aziraphale. You can come over, you can stay, even, whatever you want. There’s no-one to stand between you and me.”

“Between _us_.”

A strangled noise escapes his throat. “Yeah.”

* * *

Javier returns to work with his energies recharged. He must. If he isn’t a postman by heart, then what’s left for him to be[8]?

He manages to have a nice chat with Mrs. Babinski on his first day back, and it reminds him of why he loves this. When he thanks her for the pierogi and sees the lonely old woman’s face light up with a smile, it makes his entire day better.

On Thursday, he skims through his deliveries and finds something very interesting. A small, finely wrapped parcel is among them, addressed to a certain Mr. A.Z. Fell – at a certain flat 13 in a Mayfair block. Javier smiles as he shoulders his bag and makes his way through the near-deserted city.

When he rings the doorbell, he’s quite hopeful that he will see one of the two halves of this odd pair, happier than when he last saw them. The chances seem to be good, and he always likes the knowledge of having helped.

Mr. Crowley opens, an easy smile on his face. He seems so much more relaxed than a fortnight ago. Happier. When he picks up the parcel, it’s with energy and excitement. Javier catches a bit of that feeling, too. He can feel the happiness coursing through his veins.

“Everything worked out for you?” he asks, carefully.

Mr. Crowley nods, tries to rein in his smile. “Yeah. Used your advice – I know that’s what you want to hear.”

“Obviously,” Javier says, and he grins underneath his mask.

A soft puttering sounds from inside the flat. The clattering of tea cups, maybe. The next thing Javier hears, however, is a gentle voice; even before Mr. Fell’s soft figure comes into view down the corridor, wrapped into a comfortable cardigan[9].

“Crowley, dear, is that the postman?”

“Er… yeah, angel. Who else would it be?” He turns and waits until Mr. Fell reaches the front door too. “The one and only Javier.”

Javier proudly taps the name tag on his chest. “The one and only, yes.”

Mr. Fell gives him one of those terribly angelic smiles that only a few people ever manage to magic up, and he can almost _feel_ how his day becomes better.

“I’m so glad you decided to offer your help. Thank you.”

“It’s no big deal, sir. I gave Mr. Crowley the delivery already, hope that’s okay with you.”

Mr. Fell nods. “Of course,” he says and turns towards Mr. Crowley who immediately hands him the parcel. He is rewarded with an entirely different kind of smile in turn, smaller but infinitesimally more tender and loving. Even from several feet away, Javier can clearly make out the adoration in it. And Mr. Crowley looks just as besotted in turn.

“I’d best be going now,” Javier says. “Have a good day.”

“You too, dear.”

* * *

And, strangely enough, he has an excellent day. Work is easy, the weather’s lovely, and when Javier gets home at the end of the day, dinner and a film with his family wait for him. Simple pleasures, but they nonetheless fill him with joy. The effect seems to continue well into his next week. He almost feels a little blessed, circumstances be damned.

[1] She sends them over every other Saturday, bless that woman and her size-10-heart. It makes Javier’s day whenever he sees his daughter’s excitement over her favourite food, and he wishes he could share that with the elderly lady, but she’s still at risk, isn’t she?

[2] Possibly cake. No, Javier has not snooped. He merely considered the weight, shape and vaguely saccharine smell of the delivery. Okay, and once he’d delivered the parcel, Mr. Crowley had said _cake?!_

[3] Javier isn’t one to judge, of course not, but _gardening supplies_? Really?

[4] While Javier had at first assumed it to be something to do with botany – case in point: all the gardening supplies he’d delivered in the first few weeks – he’d been corrected at some point in September, when he’d spotted a paper crane on the sideboard and complimented Mr. Crowley on it. Mr. Crowley had snorted and said: “‘s supposed to be a duck. That origami book I ordered a while ago was garbage.”

[5] He cringes whenever he uses emphasis like that, but it is a very strong number zero, just so you know. More intense in its absence than it has any right to be.

[6] Absolutely correct.

[7] A certain Mr. Shadwell, located in a Surrey cottage.

[8] A good many things, possibly, but there’s nothing that has defined him like this. It’s not just a job. It’s twenty-five years of his life.

[9] Yes, dear reader, it’s the cardigan he wears when he feels at home. Make of that what you will.


End file.
